


The Man Behind The Mask

by thepensword



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, I'm in a Daredevil fanfic-writing craze at the moment, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Late-night brain-child of the author's, Masked Matt Murdock, Sad Vanessa, have fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5722321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepensword/pseuds/thepensword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s him.<br/>The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.<br/>He is the reason that her love is so far from her. She hates him, hates him the way she’s never hated anyone in her life.<br/>And he just saved her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man Behind The Mask

Wilson told her to leave the city, to fly away and wait for him.

And she did. But two months later, she came back.

She sits on the balcony, sipping a glass of champagne and gazing out across the city of twinkling lights, the city she could never love more than Wilson. The city he’d tried so hard to change.

She knows his methods are unorthodox, but she sees the honest intentions beneath his questionable actions, sees the little boy within the hard shell he projects, and she loves him for it.

The ring glistens on her finger, diamond like the tear that slips down her face.

She takes a deep breath and stands. She needs air. She needs freedom from the careful eye of Wilson’s men. She knows they mean to protect her, but she feels smothered beneath their attention.

Her bare feet pad gently against the floor, padded by the sweat pants caught beneath her heels. One of her party gives her a questioning look and she shakes her head at him, conveying her exhaustion, her sadness.

“I just need some air.”

“Let me come with you,” pleads the man, but she won’t have it. She needs to be alone. Truly alone.

“They won’t recognize me,” she reassures, not quite certain who ‘they’ are. “Not dressed like this.”

In comfortable sweatpants, in Wilson’s shirt that is too large for her but still so comforting. It smells like him, and if she closes her eyes and inhales she can almost pretend that she is wrapped in his embrace.

She dresses up in the daylight, but that does not mean she can’t dress casual as well.

Wilson’s man is reluctant to let her go, but he has come to understand the stubborn glint of her eyes, the fire behind her pretty face. And he has witnessed her sadness, her pining every night beneath the stars, her silent tears shed for her loved one who even now languishes within a cage that is far too small for the worth of his soul, a canary caught in a den of crows.

She slips into ankle-high boots, warm and soft like slippers, and exits the penthouse.

She traces an aimless path through the streets, keeping her head down and her arms wrapped tightly around her. Her hair hangs in her face, obscuring her from the vision of others. There is always the chance that she will be recognized, and she cannot handle the hatred. Not now.

It takes her a long time to realize that she utterly alone, that she has wandered into the crime-ridden inner corridors of the Kitchen, the places where no one goes at night for fear of robbery, rape and murder. She stops, looks around, bites her lip. Her heart beats a symphony inside of her chest and her breath rushes in and out like a fast-flowing stream.

She begins to move again, faster this time, back the way she came. But her speed is short-lived when she realizes how completely and utterly lost she is.

It is at that moment of hesitation that a hand grabs her arm and pulls her roughly into the shadows of an alleyway. She screams, but the sound is quickly cut off by calloused skin pressing into her lips.

She is shoved backwards into a wall, kicking and flailing as more hands grab her and drag her downwards. They feel up and down her arms, around her neck, tugging at her hair, slipping down the collar of her shirt and undoing buttons and _oh, god, no, this can’t be happening_ —

There is a grunt of pain, the sound of something heavy meeting flesh. The roaming hands still, and all but one set disappear.

More muffled cries of pain, bodies hitting the asphalt below with satisfying thuds. The remaining man who holds his hand across her mouth exhales with a whoosh and falls away.

She lies against the cold ground, staring up at the peeping stars above. Her face is wet with tears.

Footsteps crunch beside her, and someone crouches to her level. She squeezes her eyes shut and flinches away from the gentle touch of fingers against her shoulder.

The newcomer inhales sharply. “No…” he breathes.

Slowly composing herself, mind filling with consoling images of Wilson’s rare smile, she uses the wall to sit up. Her eyes wonder through the darkness, looking for her savior.

Clad in red, small horns glinting atop a helmet that covers all but the lower half of the face, dark stubble surrounding full lips that are pinched at the edges in an unreadable expression.

It’s him.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

He is the reason that her love is so far from her. She hates him, hates him the way she’s never hated anyone in her life.

And he just saved her.

He comes warily closer, as if he has made a decision about what to do in this situation that bypasses uncomfortable and makes a leap at hostile. “Vanessa,” he says.

She didn’t realize he knows her name, though she supposes she should have. It was never a secret. He says it with such familiarity, though, as if they have met before.

But they have not. This is a man who cannot be read, a puzzle that not even Wilson could solve.

“Are you alright?”

His voice is deep, soothing, like velvet. His fingers hover uncertainly around her shoulder once again, as if not sure if he should touch her. Well, she is not going to collapse into his arms, weeping like some damsel in distress. She will not even cry, though she can feel the tears in her throat. She can’t show weakness, not to him.

“I’m fine,” she chokes out, voice trembling. She tries to stand, but her legs are weak with leftover fear and she slides back down.

“Call the police,” he orders softly, standing and taking a few steps back.

She leans her head back against the wall and smiles a somewhat maniacal smile. “You are the reason my life is in shambles.”

He shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Wilson Fisk is a bad man,” he says cautiously, as if lecturing a stubborn child. White-hot rage burns in her chest.

“You don’t know him.”

He laughs drily. “I know enough,” he says, tone bitter as he circles away and leans against the opposing wall, facing into the plaster with his body angled slightly her way. “He killed people. Hurt plenty more.”

“I know.”

“Then why?” he exclaims, as if he has been asking himself this question over and over again. “Why do you love him?”

She takes a moment to answer, not because there is any doubt in her love but because she must find the right words to explain to the man who is her lover’s enemy. “Because he dreamed of a better world. Old buildings must be torn down before they can be replaced with new ones.”

“You haven’t seen him,” he breathes as if remembering an old pain. “Not when he’s angry. Not when—“ he chokes, and some part of her wonders what exactly Wilson did to this man to cause such fear in one so apparently fearless.

“I have. But I’ve also seen him when he is at his weakest. I know him far better than you do.”

His mouth twitches, his tongue flicks out the wet his lips. He shifts again. “Call the police.”

She slides her hand into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulls out the gold-plated iPhone, fingers shaking as she taps in the security code. “What did he do to make you hate him so much?” she wonders aloud.

Weakness flashes across the corners of his lips, fear swirls through his stance. “Enough,” he says.

“I want to know,” she presses. She gives him time to ponder as she calls 911 and with a shaking voice explains her situation. She shivers in fear of what would have happened had she not been saved.

“He killed—“ he swallows. “Killed people I care about. Tried to kill me, almost succeeded. He was a disease on my city and I just wanted…” his hands balls into fists before relaxing again. “I just wanted to help make a difference. Change things for the better.”

“You’re not that different, you know,” she says softly. “He said much the same thing.”

He slams his fist against the wall, chest heaving. “No!” he growls. “No. He was going to destroy everything! That’s no way to make things better. That’s too high of a cost.”

He disappears into the shadows, gone from the alleyway before she can register fear, and yet she knows he is nearby, waiting for the police to fetch her home.

She has imagined what he like, the man who stole her love from her. Somehow, she always pictured a monster.

But he is not a monster. Not a devil, not a villain, not even, as the press seem to think, a hero.

He is a man.

And, she contemplates as the alleyway is bathed in patterns of flashing red and blue, he is not a bad one.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and Wilson Fisk are mortal enemies, and yet they are both men beneath their masks. In truth, they are very similar, though she knows neither would appreciate her saying so.

She will never speak of this to anyone. But as she is lead away to the police car, her gaze travels upwards to the rooftop and the red-clad figure crouched there like a gargoyle, watching everything with a protective eye.

His head cocks in her direction, and she smiles.

Then he is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Also, I didn't edit this, like, at all, so I apologize for the typos.)


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